FEED ON ME
by mymistrust
Summary: Peter Bishop ponders about his alleged "weaponisation".


**WARNINGS:** Written by a non-native English speaker. Not proof read. Pardon me.

Archived at: FanFiction(.)net, ArchiveOfOurOwn(.)org, and Fandomland(.)com

**Do not archive without my knowledge.**

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**FEED ON ME**

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He stared at his reflection looking back at him. Bloodshot eyes, stern face, hair in disarray, askew clothes. That was him.

That _is_ him.

He was what he was – his father was, once again, wrong. The machine did nothing to him. The reciprocity law Walter talked about didn't apply to this, for he hadn't touched the machine. And come to think of it, even if he had, it wouldn't be possible – after all, it was just a _machine_, for Christ's sake_. _Peter refused to believe that it could have such an effect on him.

Só what if he killed those shapeshifters? It wasn't like the thought hadn't crossed his mind several times before. He just never had the guts to _act_ on it. Finally, he grew tired of only being defensive and started attacking.

They weren't humans.

He wasn't doing anything wrong.

Was he?

Peter shed his clothes and let them on a heap on the bathroom floor. He dipped into the bathtub, already filled with hot water.

God, how he needed that bath.

He leaned back and let out a sigh that hurt his chest. He felt _so_ tired. Walter usually drained his stamina in a daily basis, but today he felt like he had been hit by a derailed train, and he knew that when it was only about his father, it felt more like a truck.

As much as he acted normal around everybody, hiding what he had been doing – killing those shapeshifters, studying the Device – was getting the better of him. Peter Bishop had always been good in lying – but he never had to lie to people that he cared about before, and he knew that it would be difficult, he just didn't know that it would be _that_ difficult.

He craned his neck to one side and felt his muscles twitch in protest. God, that train had hit him good...

But the hot water was making wonders to his tensed muscles, and Peter knew that only one thing was missing for him to get 100% again: whiskey.

Thankfully, he had always been a good scout and was always prepared: lying on the floor, next to the bathtub, was his "emergency kit", as he so fondly named it in his mind. It was composed by a half-empty bottle of whiskey, a glass, his media player and a pack of cigarettes and matches.

Peter wasn't the smoking type, but once in a while he liked a good smoke, just for the sake of it.

Today would be one of those days, he thought, as he reached for his "emergency kit" and poured himself a glass of whiskey.

_Whiskey_.

He also wasn't _that_ fond of whiskey, but since he met Olivia Dunham, it had become something that he had grown accustomed with. He liked vodka best, but she seemed to enjoy a whiskey far too much, and he wouldn't refuse to follow her on it.

My god, Olivia. It was harder lying to her than lying to his own father. He felt like Walter _deserved_ to be lied to – after all, wasn't he who started all the lies? He didn't feel too guilty about lying to his father, then – and deep inside, well, he felt good. It tasted good, lying to Walter – it tasted of revenge. The sweet taste of revenge.

But that wasn't the case with Olivia, and after everything else, it felt awful.

_If that's what it takes to find out the truth_, he would think, when his resolve cracked, _then so it will be._

As Peter downed his whiskey and felt his whole body relaxing even more emerged on the hot water, he knew he was ready for a smoke and some jazz.

He leaned down to get to his media player and – –

_Keep climbing, higher and higher! Keep climbing, higher and higher!_

Downstairs, music blasted out of nowhere, getting to Peter's closed bathroom and echoing loudly.

"Oh, come _on_, Walter!" groaned Peter, letting his weight drown his upper body once again.

It seemed like Walter was listening to his Violet Sedan Chair's favourite song, and Peter knew by experience that it was no use to ask him to turn down the volume. He would have to stand it throughout his bath... Funny thing was, the music couldn't be more _un_suitable for his mood.

_Keep climbing, higher and higher! Keep climbing, higher and higher!_

Instead of trying to complain to his father, Peter did something much more useful: poured himself one more glass of whiskey and let his body rest on the cooling water. After all, he could stand the music a bit longer. He just needed to _close_ his eyes and pretend it wasn't there.

_I looked inside in search of me_

_and found a forest and a tree_

Walter Bishop was delusional. Albeit his brilliance, everybody knew he was delusional. It was clinically proved. Christ, even his _taste_ in music proved it!, thought Peter, letting go of his glass and submerging his head on the bathtub.

Why was he worrying so much about what Walter said? The machine had _no power_ over him!

And even if the reciprocity law would be remotely true, why not the contrary? Why not Peter's mood infecting the machine?

_Oh, I'm sorry_, thought Peter, _because it's a freakin' __**machine**__!_

Walter was delusional.

Violet Sedan Chair stated it.

Peter had nothing to worry about, concluded him.

And as he allowed himself to believe that, his whole body relaxed. He was being paranoid over nothing. He was sure of it.

Walter was wrong, and Peter was right.

Period.

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_You don't need me, you don't need anyone_

_To feed on your emotions as the moon becomes the sun_


End file.
